


Wanna Be On Your Mind

by eclecticanarchist



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, F/M, Girls' Night Out, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:41:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14858144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eclecticanarchist/pseuds/eclecticanarchist
Summary: Their eyes met as the last beats of the song echoed through the room. It was Frank Castle. Karen felt her stomach twist unexpectedly and part of her hoped she was wrong but there was no mistaking those dark, soulful eyes. Frank Castle was alive and still in New York. And he was a stripper?





	Wanna Be On Your Mind

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this. There's no real plot. I just wanted it to happen.

Trish had been the one to suggest it, Jessica and Colleen the ones to upvote it, and Claire and Karen the ones to reluctantly agree. That simple democracy was exactly how Karen found herself seated at the edge of a plexiglass runway watching a very fit man in nothing but a silver jockstrap gyrate against the floor to the beat of a Beyoncé song. 

Going to a strip club usually wasn’t Karen’s idea of a good time but it was girls night and on girls night, majority ruled. And tonight it was three against two. She’d been working too hard, they’d said as they dragged her away from her case files. Her friends assured her that the club they were going to was all-male and had a reputation for paying its dancers well and enforcing strict boundaries to protect the dancers. Oh well, Karen thought as she was practically shoved into her standby little black dress. She had to let her hair down sometime or other, and it might as well be now.

As soon as she’d stepped inside of the club and clocked the cheesy decoration, the pop music blasting over the sound system and dive-esque bar, Karen had felt a slow smile creep over her face. Maybe she needed to have some fun after all. Why not enjoy a night out with her friends and drink more than she should while admiring textbook examples of male fitness? 

The interior of the place felt exactly how a strip club was meant to feel, exciting, sensual, and a little bit debauched. And most importantly, it didn’t take itself seriously. On stage, the dancer moved to the silver pole glistening in the dim lights, starting up a routine as the lights caught on the golden body glitter he wore and the music pulsated accordingly. To Karen’s left Claire was listening attentively to an already slightly tipsy Colleen complain about Danny’s “earnestly self-righteous bullshit” while Trish and Jessica were cheering for the man guiding his body expertly around the pole. 

Karen listened with half an ear to Colleen’s tirade, her mind buzzing unpleasantly with thoughts of another self-righteous assholes she knows, one with a red bodysuit and martyr complex bigger than Manhattan. She sighed. She and Matt were still technically friends, despite it all. She could meet his eyes now without cringing. But things were different, now. The trust was gone, and Karen wasn’t sure their relationship could bounce back from that. She had a very complicated tangle of emotions to sort through in regards to Matt and she wasn’t even close to ready to sort through them. 

Karen brought her glass of whiskey to her lips, as the beat changed, segueing into a different song as the pole dancer took a bow and did one final strut around the stage, collecting scattered singles from the crowd. Karen watched with half attention as another set of dancers came on stage, on dressed as a firefighter, the other as a construction worker. 

Looking closer at the men, Karen decided that classics were classics for a reason. Sure real firefighters didn’t dress in shiny booty shorts and red body glitter but damn this guy pulled it off. The firefighter was smaller and blond, a contrast to the larger build and dark hair of the construction worker. 

The construction worker’s outfit took as many liberties as the firefighter’s did. Cutoff jean shirts hugged the man’s muscular thighs and a neon safety vest layered over a white tank top strained over his impressive chest and arms. Not only was he built broader and taller than most of the other dancers, but Karen could see even under the cheap plastic hard hat that he wore his dark hair and beard longer than the others chose to. 

The pair slipped easily into a routine as a man’s voice thrummed out of the speakers, moving around each other seamlessly. Whoever choreographed the dance did so with the dancers disparate builds in mind, the smaller man essentially using the other man as a climbing post, at one point perching precariously on the man’s shoulders with his crotch rocking against his face in a mockery of a blow job. That particular move earned a roar of approval from a group of men on Karen’s left and an admiring wolf whistle from Jessica.

Karen was impressed by the dancing. She knew objectively that dancers had to be strong and flexible, but seeing the ease and the grace with which the one man hefted his partner was impressing. For a moment, Karen imagined what it felt like to be lifted by those hands, strong wide hands cupping the back of her thighs and — her train of thought was interrupted by another cheer, drawing her attention back to the stage. 

The construction worker had lost both his hard hat and his vest, and was in the process of losing his shorts, much to the delight of the audience. His top came off to reveal an impressive set of abs as Karen dipped her hand into her purse for some singles. The dance climaxed in another series of lifts and throws that ended with the fireman sling over his partners shoulder in, funnily enough, a fireman’s carry. The pair were trotting around stage now, the firefighter collecting bills from the audience from upside down and tucking them into the waistband of the construction worker’s shorts. 

“That was incredible,” Trish stated, turning away from the stage as the dancers left. Karen could only nod her agreement. 

“Anyone for another round?” Jessica asked. Karen looked down to her almost empty glass and with a shrug downed the last of it and handed he glass off to the other woman. 

“No thanks this time, we’re going to hit the bathroom,” Claire declined politely, rising from her seat with Colleen close behind. 

“Those two are attached at the hip,” Jessica muttered, “If Rand wasn’t in the picture I’d think something was going on there.” 

“Don’t forget about Luke,” Trish added, propping her chin in her hand.

“How could I?” Jessica tossed her hair over one shoulder, to fill the awkward gap left by her words. Karen knew the basic rundown of the Luke-Jessica-Claire situation but honestly the whole thing wasn’t at all her business. “Now do either of you want drinks?” 

“Yes please,” Trish asked, holding out her empty glass to Jessica. 

As the super powered woman sifted her way through the throng of people towards the bar, Karen and Trish chatted idly. Karen wasn’t as close to the other woman as she would have liked. She saw in Trish a kindred spirit. They’d never had time to develop more than a tenuous friendship with their busy schedules but they’d got along well. Karen had followed Trisha’s career as a radio host with casual interest, interest that was piqued whenever she ventured toward the topic of vigilantes in Hell's Kitchen. Which now knowing her relationship with Jessica made perfect sense. 

They had just broached the issue of taken seriously as a journalist when you also happen to be pretty and blonde when Jessica returned to the table with their drinks. 

“One vodka cranberry for the lady, two whiskeys for the other ladies,” Jessica said, plopping down next to Karen just as someone strutted down the runway toward them to take center stage posed against a tall silver pole. Throughout Karen’s conversation with Trish, a steady stream of dancers had swished and twitched all across the stage, but Karen recognized the man currently stretching out against the pole as the construction worker from the earlier dance. 

The curls of his hair were loose in front of his eyes, casting dramatic shadows as all lights suddenly snapped to him, creating a spotlight as he swung himself up onto the pole. He was incredible. If Karen was impressed by the man’s dancing before she was downright awed now. He twined his muscular legs about the pole, reaching back to grip his ankle as he glided downwards before grabbing hold of the bar and spreading his legs I to a split against the pole. 

The music was something slow and sensual, highlighting the dark strength of the dancers performance. On the next beat, the man snapped his legs together and pushed them out, creating a line perpendicular to the pole with his body before dipping his legs back toward his hands. 

The man was a god damn work of art. Even in the hazy darkness of the club, the tight black underwear and lack of a shirt highlighted every stretch and pull of glorious muscle underneath his skin. He moved with deadly efficiency, each move was perfect and perfectly beautiful. A silence had settled over the crowd and Karen shifted slightly in her seat. He was close to the top of the pole, looping his legs in easy circles around the shiny metal, arms and neck poised. Karen could tell the routine was coming to a close as the speed of his rotations picked up, interspersed with splits toward the sky, and then suddenly slowed, as he drifted toward the floor with aloof grace. 

Their eyes met as the last beats of the song echoed through the room. It was Frank Castle. Karen felt her stomach twist unexpectedly and part of her hoped she was wrong but there was no mistaking those dark, soulful eyes. Frank Castle was alive and still in New York. And he was a stripper? 

He started back from her, not breaking eye contact until he had to to collect the money being thrown at him by the whooping crowd around them. Time caught up to them as Trish nudged Karen’s side. 

“You okay, Karen,” she asked, concerned. 

“She’s fine,” Jessica snorted, “just a little bit n heavy over tall dark and handsome’s performance there.”

Karen felt herself nodding in agreement before even meaning to, a hasty smile catching on her lip as she raised a shaky hand to her lips. She hadn’t seen him since the rooftop. Since he took the shot. Then another thought hit her. The Punisher knows how to pole dance. 

She knew he’d seen her. Even with the dark lighting there was no way he wouldn’t have noticed her. She kicked herself for not noticing it earlier but with the hair and the beard and the costumes, Frank was almost unrecognizable. 

“That was incredible!” Colleen said, sidling up to the table with Claire at her side. “We only caught the tail end of it from the bar but that was… wow, just wow.”

“Yeah,” Karen commented, “it sure was.”

“Is one of you lovely ladies Karen Page?” Asked a young man dressed in a toga and wreaths of laurel. 

“I am,” Karen raised her hand in a wave, prompting a brilliant smile from her querent. 

“Pete asked for you,” he said, dimples crinkling the sides of his mouth. “Said I should show you backstage.” Pete? Oh. Pete. It made sense for Frank to use a fake name but Pete? Really? But she stood and gathered her purse. 

“Where’re you going, Page?” Jessica asked, eyebrows arched in suspicion. 

“Turns our one of the dancers is an old friend,” she replied, “you guys can go on without me if you get bored, we might be talking for a while.”

“He’s not an ex, is he?” Claire asked “Do you want some backup?”

“No, not an ex. And no, no I’ll be fine thanks though.” 

“All right, be safe.” A chorus of goodbyes echoed after Claire’s call but Karen is already weaving through the tables following her guide. He leads her to a side door marked ‘employees only’ next to the bar that leads to a twist of hallway peppered with doors. Her guide, who she’s nicknamed Hermes, opens the second door the come across and ushers her gallantly inside.

Five sets of eyes turn to look at her, the men they belonged to all in various states of undress. Costume pieces and makeup were littered all over and two long mirror lined with round bulbs ran the length of the room. Frank stood up from where he was hunched by the makeup counter, eyebrows pressing together as they locked eyes.

“Karen,” he said, voice low.

“Hey Pete,” she said, trying hard to keep her voice even. “It’s been a while.” 

“Yeah…”Frank trailed off, suddenly self-conscious of their audience, who were pointedly not being subtle about the way they looked back and forth between them. “Guys can we have the room?” 

A round of whistles and hoots, interspersed with comments on why she and ‘Pete’ would need the room alone were all he got in response, but one by one the other men reluctantly stood and filtered out of the room. The last one out was Hermes, who gave Karen a wink and a cheeky grin before pulling the door shut behind him.

“I have to say this is the last place I expected to see you again,” Karen breathed, fidgeting with the strap of her purse. Part of her brain noted that Frank was still clad only in the black briefs he’d worn on stage, but as soon as she thought it, he hurried to pull on a silky robe. Which didn’t help one bit because the robe also happened to be too short, silky, and black. 

“I could say the same thing,” he muttered, eyes glancing up to meet hers then darting away again. 

“I’m here with friends,” Karen shot back, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I’m not the one who works here.”

“Fair enough. Do you want to sit down?” Karen sank into the closest chair, her back ramrod straight as he sat back into the chair he’d abandoned. 

“So, you’re Pete now?”

“Yes ma’am, Pete Castiglione at your service,” he said, a faint smile brushing his lips.

“Castiglione,” she huffed a laugh, “Clever. I like it.”

“I wanted to keep some part of me, y’know?” A beat of silence filled the space between them. 

“Are we going address the elephant in the room here?” Karen asked quietly, one pale brow arched. Frank shot her a look like sugar wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Frank, why are you working at a strip club?”

“Pays good, better than construction,” he shrugged. “No one looks twice at a dancer, they see the body first, they focus on that. Easier to hide.”

“And the dancing? Where in hell's name did you learn to dance like that?”

“I took a class,” Frank looked at his hands with a trace of sheepishness.

“You took a class?” Karen repeated incredulously.

“After my first tour, Maria thought it would be a fun thing to do, so we did it, and some of it stuck,” Frank said, his tone shifting to something uncertain and sad at the mention of his wife. 

“Oh.” Karen paused, unable to read the expression on Frank’s face. “Well you’re very good at it, all my friends thought so too. And the dance you did earlier with the firefighter.” Frank laughed, running a hand over his short beard and Karen cracked a smile. 

“That’s Teddy, he’s good at what he does,” Frank remarked, shifting his weight in his chair and this time the silence that fell between them was comfortable rather than strained

“I haven’t seen you in the papers recently,” Karen tilted her head, looking at him through lowered lashes. “I wasn’t sure that you were still in the city.”

“I’m giving the whole low profile thing a shot,” he said, “Gonna see how that works out for me.” Karen’s phone buzzed, the low repetitive drone of an incoming call. It was Jessica, no doubt calling to confirm she was alright. “You have to get that?”

“It’s my friend checking in,” she said, typing out a text in reply. After a moment’s consideration, she scribbled out her number on a drinks napkin holding a glass of half melted something or other. “I should probably head out now, but this is my number. I don’t know if you have a phone or anything, but you should call me sometime. We could grab coffee.”

Frank reached out to take the offered napkin, smoothing it between his fingers as he looked up at her. “Yeah, I’d like that.”


End file.
